Since my mother died young, my sister and I grew up under the care of our maid. She came from a village in China and knew the proper panacea for each season. She brewed herbal soups, some bitter, some exotic, and we drank them without question. In winter evenings when I was shivering in front of my desk studying, she would surprise me with a poached egg in crystal sugar broth. That was the most welcoming snack of my childhood.
The recipe for the crystal sugar egg is lost forever. I now look forward to the fortune cookie that Dore brings home when he orders take out from Chinese restaurant. Some of the fortunes are good enough to use as prompts but most of the time I throw them into the recycle bin. Last night I snacked on edamame as I wrote three haiku’s—not because they were culturally appropriate but because they were cooked and handy from Trader Joe’s. Snacking and writing do go hand in hand. The refrigerator is my refuge when I am out of words.
